


Mutual, I'm Sure

by realjane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 10:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12981669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realjane/pseuds/realjane
Summary: Who's helping who? A Christmas Eve Gala at the Ministry has both Hermione and Draco wishing for some distraction.





	Mutual, I'm Sure

“Let me go,” she seethed. “Or I’ll scream.”

He swayed them in time to the music, which was both tepid and swelling--at once rendering any true lover of music practically bereft for some good ole’ fashioned violin screeching--but _everyone_ was dancing to the ruckus, and she was liable to leap in Ron Weasley’s direction if he so much as growled at her. His grip on her wrist tightened.

“Would you pretend to have an ounce of civility,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “I love a bloodbath as much as the next wizard, but that _thing_ is not worth your energy.” For good measure, his fingers curled into the fabric at the base of her spine. Hermione seemed to calm and allow him to lead… but it didn’t stop her from huffing angrily in his ear.

“Draco, I don’t have time for your jokes--”

“Oh, would you rather I allow you to decapitate the man?” he asked lightly. He pulled back just enough to look down at his captive for a moment. She merely glared over his shoulder. Her well-manicured nails dug into the back of his hand. He twirled them in time to a particularly resonant tuba blast so he could observe the offending man.

Lavender Brown stood beside one Ronald Weasley, who was repeatedly glancing in their direction and whispering furiously to his compatriot. “He’s furious that you’re dancing with me,” Draco surmised softly. He adjusted his posture to bring Hermione’s cheek closer to his own. “My, my…” he chuckled. Ron had accidentally made eye contact with him and turned away abruptly, while Lavender tried to comfort him with a tiny hand on his arm. Ron shrugged her away. Lavender’s eyes shone with tears but she merely turned back to watch the dancers. “Just refused comfort from his new witch, even. He’s absolutely chartreuse with envy.”

“I _don’t_ believe you,” Hermione whispered, though her death grip on his hand lessened. Draco spun them around once again so she could observe the scene for herself.

From his vantage point, Draco could see a host of other reasons to want to flee the wretched Christmas-infested gala, namely the presence of his own former fling on the arm of a certain Boy-Who-Lived. He winced as Hermione’s spiked heel tread on his instep.

“That bloody hurt,” he whispered. She glanced up at him for the first time since he had pulled her into the dance and furrowed her eyebrows.

“Sorry,” she said. She tugged on his shoulder expectantly and he got the message. He spun them around once again--this time, being oh so blessed by the sight of Ron snogging the lips off of his poor date.

“Is he trying to take her soul?”

“More like he’s extracting her tonsils,” Hermione said breathily, trying her damndest not to laugh. Draco raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know if he realizes that Doctors can do that now.”

“Maybe he’s a Dementor-in-training,” she suggested. There was marked note of amusement in her voice. Draco flexed his fingers as he tried very hard not to shake with laughter. Hermione quickly relaxed her hand in his and extended her own fingers. “Sorry--didn’t realize I was squeezing the shit out of your hand.”

“I didn’t notice,” he said with a shrug.

The band finally finished the infernal waltz with an unceremonious WOMP and a tepid wave of applause spread amongst the dancers. Draco released his partner and bowed to her slightly--and spied a particularly livid Weasley over her shoulder. He looked hell-bent on giving Hermione a piece of his mind, so much so that he downed a proffered shot of firewhiskey from a startled server and clenched his fists.

Draco stepped into her bubble once again and Hermione held up her hands in surprise. He grasped them and tugged her backwards, deeper into the crowd. She tried to tug her hands free. “Weasley is just itching to get your attention,” he warned. “At least let me extract you from that inevitability for one more dance.”

“And what do you get out of it?” Hermione asked expectantly, though she let her hands fall into his once again. Draco looked down for a moment and shook his head once.

“Why don’t you take this dance as your opportunity to suss out my motives, eh?” he asked. Ron had already tried maneuvering through several couples but the band had struck up a furious polka and he was battered left and right by elbows. He twirled them so Hermione could see that he wasn’t lying about Weasley, and then again, so she could see beyond him into the rest of the ballroom. In his brief time facing her direction, Pansy had stroked Harry Potter’s chest no less than three times. Draco didn’t want to be with her, he didn’t want her attention, but he sure as Salazar didn’t want to see her canoodling with the Ministry’s Golden Boy--especially now that he was the top candidate for Minister of Magic. If their dalliance continued, he’d have to see Pansy’s face in his morning paper, and seeing her again would become routine. A routine that had previously ended, tragically, in a bruised ego and a hardened heart.

“You’re falling asleep on me,” Hermione whispered. “I think we’re supposed to be more… wild during this dance.” She nodded to a few couples nearby, who were a mess of flailing limbs.

Draco chuckled. “I don’t know if I have a truly wild polka in me.”

“I would pay several galleons to see it, however.”

“Or,” he said with a gentle smile, “we could seek out the bar.”

“How many firewhiskeys does it take to coax a wild polka out of you?” Hermione asked with a laugh.

“Roughly seven,” he grinned, “and I prefer mead.”

He gestured to the opposite end of the room, where the bar and buffet lay, beckoning, and conveniently a good distance from both Weasley and Pansy. Hermione nodded and dropped her arms. Draco looped her arm through his and pulled her in the direction of the alcohol. Many, many, many heads turned to watch them walking together through the crowd, as if they had been invisible while dancing--or as if somehow their history and the Malfoy family’s former purity quest somehow just got drowned out by bad music--but now a reel of their mistakes played over their heads as if to say _we know what you are._

By the time they reached the bar, Hermione was clutching to his sleeve for dear life, and it was only then that he got a good look at her. She looked absolutely flustered, but her hair was perfectly tamed into long, languid waves. Black was certainly fetching on most, but on her it was forbiddingly elegant. Somehow the fabric was enchanted to sparkle like distant starlight; whether it was layered or just charmed, he couldn’t be sure. The bodice clung in a corseted wrap style around her torso, while the skirt graced her hips and then swirled around her toes. It was an excellent choice. Draco saw her so frequently at work that he felt he could’ve anticipated any choice she had made for a gown, save this one. Suddenly, he couldn’t recall a single other article of clothing that she had ever worn. It was this, this forever.

Hermione blushed under his gaze but she didn’t dare shake him from his reverie. Instead, she ordered for them both--an obscure elven wine for herself, and a mead for him. His hair was still that same recognizable faint blond, but it was carefully coiffed as to be both slicked back and somewhat tousled. Both effortless and calculated. Either way, it suited him. It made his cheekbones stand out ever-sharper, but his face had filled out with muscle since they were teens. So had the rest of him, by the looks of it. Nevermind that she saw him every day--their divisions were close and it meant sharing frequent niceties. She hadn’t noticed him grow up, really.

“Draco,” she whispered, tugging on the cuff of his jacket. He grasped her hand and shook out of his Granger-induced trance, only to follow her gaze. Pansy was making her way over with Potter. Smiling.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed. He breathed out heavily and took a large swig of his mead as soon as she offered it. Hermione released his hand. His heart dropped as she sidled between him and the bar and disappeared into the crowd. Bloody hell. He greeted Potter with a nod and offered the woman on his arm merely a glance.

“Malfoy!” Potter said warmly, clasping him on the arm. “Where’d Hermione run off to?”

“Oh hush,” Pansy giggled. “Surely she just ran off to the lady’s room or some such place, but it isn’t polite to inquire about another man’s date.” She was dripping in red satin, which paired rather oddly against Potter’s blue-green robes. They didn’t look well together at all.

 _What the hell are you on about now, Parkinson,_ Draco thought. “Congrats on the nomination,” Draco said to Harry. “Sure you’ll win.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said. He held out his hand for Draco to shake, which made Draco wonder just how many hands the Golden Boy had already shaken on his tour of diplomacy. He was universally loved. People would vote for him. He was a shoe-in. Draco shook his hand firmly. “I hope I’ll do some good.” Harry shrugged. Affable. Easy-going. Aloof--no wonder the public ate him up. Draco vomited internally. Oh, he liked Potter just fine as a colleague, but couldn't stomach politicians. Of any sort.

“What _is_ she doing?” Pansy cackled, pointing to the dance floor. Draco turned. Hermione was dodging through couples, pursued by an apoplectic Ron, whose flailing had nothing to do with the music. She was inclining her head to look above people’s heads. When she caught Draco’s eye, she paled and rolled her eyes, darting sharply to her left and towards the massive and gaudy Christmas tree.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. He downed his mead, straightened his sleeves, and strode towards the tree himself, parallel to Granger’s flight path. Lucky for him, his legs were longer than hers, so he beat her by enough steps to formulate a small… plan, so to speak. As soon as she burst through the crowd, he caught her with a chuckle and swung her around in his arms.

“Darling, you simply must let me guess!” he announced joyously. His arms were around her waist and she couldn’t touch the ground. She looked at him like he was insane. “Oh, fine… is it… that train set you know I’ve always wanted?” He baited the hook and raised an eyebrow. Understanding washed over her face, but she said nothing, merely shaking her head.

“It’s not the train… hmmm… it must be the lunar grandfather clock we saw in that antique shop that time!” He slowly lowered her to the ground but his hands remained on her waist. Hermione’s hands settled on his lapel and he realized she couldn’t speak--she was breathing too hard from running away. Ron had caught up to them, but he, too, was panting… though red was a decidedly unflattering tone on him when paired with a jealous complexion. Draco motioned for her not to speak.

“If you insist on keeping it a secret then I’ll just have to keep guessing!” he said with a grin. Hermione shrugged and smiled innocently. Draco simply hugged her close and laughed, a warm and hearty sound, which wrapped Hermione in an aura of wistful loveliness… until she remembered the red-haired man glaring at them.

“What is going on here?” Ron managed, finally. Hermione tapped Draco’s shoulder and he released her, though she kept a grip on his elbow.

“I couldn’t possibly begin to guess what you mean,” she said. Her tone belied a heavy note of sarcasm and yet, a tinge of innocence.

“Darling, I’m not the only one who wants to know,” Draco said with glee.

“Wants to know what?” Ron asked.

“What she got me for Christmas!”

“I--I don’t want to speak to y-you, Malfoy,” Ron spat.

“You _asked_ , my man!” Draco smirked. “I have been trying to convince Hermione to tell me all evening, but she’s simply too good at keeping secrets.”

“Clearly. ‘Mione, I can’t believe you’re here with _him_ , after everything--”

“Don’t blame her, I have been pestering her about the Christmas Eve Gala every single day,” Draco said. “She merely accepted out of pity, I think, but she’s just too nice to tell me. She probably didn’t get my anything for Christmas and she’s just trying to put me off! Really, Hermione, if this isn’t going to work out, you should just let me down easy.”

“Well, ‘Mione? What have you got to say for yourself?” Ron asked, arms crossed.

Draco looked down at her, waiting for some kind of signal to continue his incessant charade. She merely bit her lip and shook her head. Draco held up his hand to elaborate on the scenario he had concocted but Hermione grabbed his hand and lowered it gently.

“It might spoil everything if I tell him,” she said softly. Soft enough that both Ron and Draco sobered.

“Tell me what?” The two men asked in unison. Hermione blushed under their gazes and realized that the entire hall had turned to watch the floor show. She stepped away from Draco and took him in--all six-foot-two of him. Every single day, since he started at the Ministry, he said something kind to her in passing. Even if she was just taking a note to Harry or passing by for the vending machine. _Good day, Hermione! I really appreciate your decision on that owl case. Excellent work._ And so on. Genuine, true compliments that left her wondering how he had made such a transformation. Just one year of working with the Ministry and he’d more than earned his stripes. He had kind eyes, too. Watery grey pools with a warm, golden center around the iris. He even ate lunch with her and Harry in the lounge. It had become a regular thing. Harry had been distant lately, with his campaign, but Draco hadn’t stopped showing up.

He was a breath of fresh air and probably the one reason she wasn’t sitting in the ladies room, crying her eyes out at the sight of her ex-husband snogging his new girlfriend… well, old girlfriend. They’d apparently been together throughout the entire marriage. Hermione was none the wiser. Dancing with Draco was the most fun she had had in ages, even if it was all a ruse to help her.

She glanced at Ron, who might as well have had steam coming out of his ears. _Enough_ , she thought.

“It’s about time I was going,” she said softly. Draco nodded once and gave her that signature cockeyed smirk. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. His work was done, she was going, that was that.

Hermione gave Ron a hard look. “Please refrain from approaching me in public from now on,” she said in a low whisper. “It’s tacky. And pointless. And I couldn’t care less what you think.” She brushed past him without another word, but she cast one last look back at Draco. Who was checking his watch.

“Bored with her already?” Ron ground out.

“When will you ever learn, Weasley?” Draco straightened his tie, cufflinks, and smoothed the front of his jacket. “A woman like that? I have made that mistake before. I can’t just let her walk away.”

Draco watched Hermione ascend the steps of the grand ballroom and disappear out of sight, but he wasn’t about to let her get far. As he shouldered past the offending man, Ron grabbed his arm in a vice grip. “She didn’t tell you what she did to her parents, then,” Ron spat.

“Mate, I have had lunch with her every single day for the last year. At this point, I know things about her that you’ll never begin to understand.” Draco wrenched his arm out of Ron’s grip and shook out his sleeve. “And I care about her.”

“Hermione doesn’t know what she wants, and she definitely doesn’t want _you_ \--”

Draco grabbed Ron by the collar and smirked. “I spent the entire evening trying to keep her from seeing you making a spectacle of yourself, Weasley. She’s moved on. She’s trying. So I’ll thank you to leave her name out of your mouth.” He gave Ron a little shove and released him.

“She moved on to _you_ , then?” Ron asked in disbelief.

“Is it so hard for you to believe that she might be happy alone?” Draco said.

“Draco Malfoy! You can’t resist a public spectacle, can you?” Pansy’s voice pierced through his resolve and Draco turned on her. Potter skirted around him and went to sort out Ron, which looked more like holding Ron back and chastising him quietly.

“As for you,” he seethed at Pansy. “You’re riding the coattails of our national hero--you might even wind up being our Minister’s wife--but you just seem to be obsessed with me. Really, Pansy, it’s embarrassing!” Draco couldn’t help but laugh at the relief of being able to say _something_ to her, even if that only scratched the surface of his grievances. “Really, you two--” he gestured between Pansy and Ron, “--would be bloody perfect for each other.”

He pushed past them and strode through the opening in the crowd that parted quickly. All he wanted to do was have one nice night where his past didn’t get dredged up by an old grudge. He wanted to just dance and not care about making people jealous--he wanted to spend his time with people who actually mattered.

Hermione sat in the foyer of the Ministry, beneath the vast black tiles and busts of famous magical folk, just taking in all of the twinkling lights that had been arranged for the holidays. It was sparkly, true, but the more one stared, the more lights seemed to appear, just hanging there below the magnificent ceiling. It reminded her so much of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but it wasn’t quite as exciting as a freak thunderstorm charm gone awry, or, say, as Draco Malfoy sprinting full speed down the long tile hallway in her direction. Hermione blushed. She stood as he approached and Draco reached out a hand for her to wait, so he could catch his breath.

“Did you run the whole way?” she laughed.

“Whole way,” he confirmed with a gasp. “No reason, though, just like running.”

“Oh, well, if there’s no reason, then I’ll just go--”

Draco grabbed her hand to stop her. “Ha. Funny. Gimme a second.” He sat on the bench that she had previously occupied and ran a hand through his hair. Despite his fast pace, it had hardly budged from it’s perfect coif. Hermione chose to sit beside him in silence. His breathing settled. Her nerves kicked into high gear.

“So… you ran,” she said.

“ _You_ waited.” He raised an eyebrow at her. She looked away and her cheeks were pink.

“How about a less… fraught topic, for now?” Draco suggested. Hermione laughed nervously.

“Yes please.”

“All right. Why were you so shaken up about the Weasel?” he asked, placing a hand over hers. “You’ve never told me about what happened.”

“That would be because _you_ put a moratorium on talking about our love lives!”

“So let’s talk about it now,” Draco said. He squeezed her hand.

She looked up at him. “ _That_ question is supposed to be _less_ fraught?” Draco looked away innocently and shrugged. She sighed. “He couldn’t fathom why I don’t want children,” she said softly. “But after I had to _Obliviate_ my parents, I just… couldn’t stand the thought of them not being able to know my future children. And in Ron’s fantasy dream house, there are at least five babies, if not more. So, he mailed the divorce papers to my office, had my belongings packed up while I was at work, and erased me from his fantasy.”

Draco seemed to digest this solemnly. He squeezed her hand again.

“It’s all right for him now; Lavender wants loads of kids, and she’s really a fantastic woman--”

“But he’s still obsessed with you,” Draco finished. Hermione shrugged.

“I suppose so. He only sees me at functions like this, so he… makes the most of it, shall we say?”

Draco nodded. She pulled her thin wrap tighter around her shoulders. He shrugged out of his black velvet coat and offered it. “Oh, no thank you--”

“Don’t be stupid, Granger. You’re vibrating.” He helped her put her arms through the sleeves and when he was satisfied, he took her wrap and tied it around his neck like a cravat… mostly to make her smile, but also because he thought it a very fine silk and on par with his own taste in neckwear.

“That’s a look,” she laughed.

“Two neckties is all the rage in Paris this season,” he said with a particularly aristocratic air, but his smirk gave him away and she couldn’t help but beam at him. Eventually, the smile settled into a determined pout.

“Are you going to tell me about Pansy?” she asked.

“Is that your way of asking if I want to talk about five years in a Hellscape? Because I don’t,” he said gently. “She likes to pick at me, now that we’re done. Makes her feel powerful. That’s all there is to know.”

“Merlin knows what Harry sees in her,” Hermione sighed.

Draco shook his head. “That’s just it. I _do_ know what he sees. She’s brilliant--mental, unhinged, potentially evil, and definitely knows how beautiful she is--but smart as a whip. She will keep him on his toes. Can I stop talking about her now?”

“Be my guest.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“You’re welcome… congenially.” Hermione struggled for a better word but found none and shrugged. Draco stood and looked up at the same lights with which Hermione had been entranced.

“Why did you stay in the foyer instead of just going home?” he asked, back still to her.

“Why did _you_ run after me?” she countered.

“For your scarf,” he teased, fingering the homemade cravat at his neck. Hermione slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and found his hand. He clasped it. He looked down at her. “Do you want to go grab some dinner?” he asked. “It’s only seven, and you cannot waste that dress.”

“Do you like it?” she asked with glee. “I worked with Madam Malkin for _weeks_.”

“Ten out of ten. Dinner?”

“That feels… I don’t know…” She hesitated.

“Too personal?”

“No.” She looked at their entwined fingers. “Logical.”

Draco sputtered. “ _Logical_? How do you figure?”

“Well, I have lunch with you every single day, it’s only logical that we make it dinner, too,” she said, smiling.

“I see,” he replied, squeezing her hand. “Besides, you did have a crazy ginger chasing you around that party, I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite!”

“Please let’s not talk about Ron anymore,” she said, exasperated.

“Like, ever?”

“Never again. Ever. Even if he... becomes Minister of Magic instead of Harry.”

“Even if he invents the cure for cancer and ends world hunger and invents a new type of self-cleaning Quidditch uniform,” Draco suggested.

“Even if that were the case, yes,” Hermione laughed. “Dinner? Where to?”

“How about… I cook for you. At my flat,” he said. “I’m above average, no Michelin stars yet, but I have a sous chef position open right this second, and it’s the only decent place to get a reservation on Christmas Eve.” He took her hands between his own.

“I know my way around a cutting board.”

“You’re hired. You start tonight. Your uniform is this dress and that smile, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Draco said, pulling Hermione into a hug. Hermione pushed back a little bit, to look up at him. “What?”

“Like a fine wine, Malfoy,” she said softly. She leaned up and pressed her lips to his. He hauled her against him, both arms around her waist, and spun her around until she cackled with glee. He held her for what felt like ages, face buried against her neck, absorbing the honest happy moment. Like he was charging up his batteries, or some such thing.

“Good thing I ran,” he whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Christmas, loves! I've had this idea floating around in my head for a while and it was just begging for a Christmas one-shot. Thank you for reading!


End file.
